Down to Earth with a Bang
by Yves Adele
Summary: Nothing like starting off the Holidays with a murder mystery! Agent Dean Winchester and his brand new (Rookie) partner, Castiel Stills, must solve the murder of Gary Frieleng. As they delve into the case, more and more evidence turns up to suggest that this thing goes way deeper than either of them could have imagined; now they have to save the world - without killing each other.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: "All work and no play makes Dean a Dick."**

On a beautiful, quiet Saturday, the logical thing to do is to sleep in. Friday night should be a long party that lasts until the sun peeks its bastard head over the distant horizon. The next ten-to-twelve hours should be spent sleeping, followed by some possible vomiting and definitely the consumption of water and greasy food. Doctors recommend another six-to-eight hours of sleep following that. Saturdays should certainly not be spent in a cheap suit, crawling around in the gutters of a backwater, Bible-Belt wasteland. There most definitely should not be things in those gutters with the intention of killing any and all that invade their territory, and one should absolutely not be in said gutters hunting those things sporting a sprained pinky, a black eye, and naught for defense save a small, silver chiv.

Not only did Dean Winchester's Saturday consist entirely of things it indubitably should not, but it consisted of all of these things before the hour of 10AM and without a single ounce of caffeine in his system. As he began the two-hour drive back to Kansas City with a (far-as-he-could-tell) dead body in tow, Dean huffed an exhausted sigh of exasperation.

 _Nobody deserves this_ , he thought. Melancholy music drifted annoyingly from the car stereo. Dean cursed it for not having a tape deck.

He was forced to drive a crappy, company sudan while his own vehicle was undergoing maintenance. Chief Singer had pointed out that the repairs would go much faster if he just "put the damn thing in the shop."

Dean's response had been, "Hell no! Nobody is putting their hands on my Baby but me." And he insisted that all the work be done by himself.

"You love that piece of junk more than you've ever loved me," his brother, Sam, occasionally teased. Dean's 1967 Chevrolet Impala really was his most prized possession. It had been the only constant in his fucked-up world, and he didn't plan on letting anyone ruin that for , that really did mean a longer wait to drive his own car again. That was fine. Dean had known it would be a long-term project, so for the moment he listened to Christian Radio, finding strength in the fact that it was only temporary.

An unexpected pothole jarred Dean nearly out of his seat, which reminded him to check the clock; in about twenty minutes, he was going to have to stop and make sure that the thing in the trunk was staying dead. He sighed. This was going to be a long drive.

Shoulders tight, back straight, head tilted slightly forward, Castiel stepped off of the elevator that had just reached his level. He gave a long, sweeping look at the corridor ahead of him. A white ceiling overshadowed bare, white walls, which met with a dull floor of gray and black tiles. Some red floor moulding looked like it was hastily thrown on to add a touch of color. He wasn't really sure what he expected an FBI field office to look like. Perhaps, he thought, a huge, open room with little cubicles for everyone to hide behind, surrounded by looming glass that allowed sunshine to bathe the good office workers in its rays. Secretaries would bustle from cubicle to cubicle, gofers stopping by the offices of important figures to bring them their coffee while they chatted with coworkers, and everyone would mock the six guys who were actually hunched over their desks, typing away, hard at work.

Instead, he was faced with ten-foot-wide concrete hall of depression. Fluorescent lights flickered, gloomily, overhead. Heels and casual dress shoes pattered down the way. The people were a blur, and their clothing blended with the building, grays and blacks and whites, now pushing past him, some with uneasy stares and glances, to catch the elevator before the doors _ding!_ ed closed.

Castiel stepped aside to let the hurried people past. He straightened the lapels of his (what now seemed too casual) trench coat, and he looked at the notebook clutched in his hand.

 _Office 427_

 _SC Walker and DC Singer_

 _10:45 AM_

He hadn't really needed to write it down. Castiel knew those numbers and names by heart. He'd studied them daily since receiving them three weeks prior to arriving in Kansas City. It was two weeks before he graduated, so he probably could have used the brainpower elsewhere, but this day was a huge one for Castiel. He was going to be given his first assignment that morning. Sectional Chief Gordon Walker and District Chief Robert Singer would evaluate him, find the person best suited to "break him in" (as Castiel heard was done to rookies) during his probationary period, and that was it: Castiel was taking his very first stride toward becoming a real-life field agent.

Gabriel teased Castiel when he first mentioned joining the FBI. "Seriously, Cassy? You want to investigate stuff on Earth? With humans?" He gave a good natured laugh with an uncertain smile, but he eventually warmed up to the idea. In fact, hardly a month after Castiel suggested it, Gabriel actually reassigned him to take care of some business on the ground. They'd received some intel that Castiel didn't have security clearance to hear, and he was sent to Quantico nearly a week later.

Four years later, Castiel stood at the end of an eerie hallway, willing his feet to carry him. He was early.

It was only 10:15. He had no idea if it was bad form to show up to an evaluation half an hour early. He wasn't sure if it would look like he made an effort or if it would look like he hadn't paid attention when being given instructions. He didn't really mind being perceived as eager. However, he was well aware that showing up at the wrong time could demonstrate an inability to comply with orders, and he did not want that at all.

Castiel stood for the next few minutes with his back against the wall. He looked at his paper for a few moments, then up at the bustling employees, then again at his notes. With a final glance at his watch, he finally decided to continue his trek down the hall toward office number 427. He could at least locate the room, possibly talk to a bookkeeper or secretary, and then wait outside.

Dean let out a moan of frustration when the gas light came on and the dashboard gave a polite _ping!_ He had just made it through St. Joseph, Missouri, which meant that he was going to have to stop for gas, which meant that he would be paying for it out-of-pocket. Sure, he would be reimbursed, but that wouldn't be until the Friday two weeks into the future.

" _Fuel efficient_ my ass," he muttered, slamming the driver's side door. He stopped at a gas station/truck stop just a mile from the highway. Its vibe kind of said _stay too long and your death will not be by monster but by redneck_.

He hastily popped open the gas cover and screwed off the cap, tipping the nozzle into the tank and selecting the cheapest fuel. The dealer had explicitly instructed him to only put premium fuel in the tank. Dean had agreed, but that was before he knew that the car's weak 15-gallon tank wouldn't last him the journey home. There was no way he was paying any $4/gallon to get him seventy more miles. He didn't have time for picky preppy cars.

After topping off, Dean replaced the gas cap and slammed the cover shut. He gave the trunk a good thump with his fist, muttering, "Still dead in there?"

He scoured the convenience store for a Slim-Jim before he climbed back into the driver's seat and headed south again.

Fortunately, the music selection became slightly wider as he neared the city, and he put a little bit of food in his stomach, alleviating some of his distress.

At the front of the Sectional Chief's office was a huge, oak desk. It was modestly adorned with a single wilting flower in a glass vase, a small jar of assorted marbles, and a framed award facing the door. On the other side of the desk was a bulky desktop computer, and behind that computer was an attractive girl with red hair and bright eyes.

She smiled at Castiel when he walked in. "Good morning, sir!" She said. Her tone was chipper. Castiel noted the coffee mug clutched tightly in her right hand. "How can I help you today?"

"My name is Castiel, I, uh..." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a state-issued identification card. "I'm here for Chief Singer; I'm the new Probationary Agent."

"Oh! Hi, Castiel." She stood from behind the desk and offered a hand. "Charlene Bradbury. You can call me Charlie," she shrugged, "everybody does. Why don't you have a seat, and I'll tell Mister Singer you're here? He isn't expecting you for another twenty minutes, right?"

Castiel nodded, accepting the handshake and suppressing a look of mild surprise; she was very friendly. He knew there was really nothing to be ashamed of, showing up to an appointment early. Still, a flush crept over his face when he sat down and Charlie disappeared with a quick knock into the adjoining room.

The walls were thin. He could hear Charlie speaking quietly, then was surprised by a gruff man's voice saying, "Here? Already? Dadgum greenies. Too damn eager to get into the field if you ask me." Then a quieter something, muffled, about "twenty minutes" and "Walker ain't here yet," and then a, "Thanks, Charlie."

Castiel pretended not to have been eavesdropping when the secretary returned. She hefted a sigh, smile still plastered on her lips. "Thanks for waiting, Castiel. The Sectional Chief isn't here, yet, so you'll have to wait just a bit longer. Can I get you anything in the meantime?"

He shook his head. "Thank you. I'll be fine."

Charlie made an acknowledging gesture, and she sat again at her desk.

Cas occupied himself by studying the tiles on the opposite wall. They were red and black and white. Below the tiles was a brown wall border, and beneath that a white wallpaper speckled with a stucco pattern. A potted plant sat in the far corner of the room. After looking at it a moment, Cas realized it wasn't a real plant. He struggled to understand the purpose of artificial botany. Fake flowers he could sort of see a reason for; they livened up a room, sometimes, and were occasionally quite pretty. This wasn't a plant with flowers on it, though. It was a swampy, green thing, with long fronds that drooped to the floor.

"So, you're an angel, huh?" Charlie asked.

Startled, Castiel's attention snapped back to her. He had been asked that question and questions like it before, but never in a way that sounded like a genuine inquiry. He was used to hearing a bit of an accusing tone behind the words.

Charlie suddenly looked mortified. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to-I mean…"

"No," Castiel interrupted, "don't apologize. Your curiosity is only natural. Yes, I am."

"What made you decide to join the FBI?" she inquired, leaning with her elbows on the desk.

"A number of things factored into my decision," he said. "Ultimately, however, it was my brother's decision. There are matters here into which he needed more insight."

"Why not just ask Gadreel?" Charlie suggested. "Why spend all that time sending someone else to school and through qualifying and all that? Doesn't that take a long time?"

Castiel nodded, slowly. "It does take some time," he agreed, "but it is a...sensitive matter. Gadreel is not...generally tasked with these things."

"Oh." Charlie cast her eyes down to look at her beverage. "I didn't know."

"I don't suppose Gadreel mentioned why he joined the FBI."

Charlie gave another little shrug. "Nah. He's kind of secretive. Then again, I can't really blame him. Some of the field agents can be a little…" She trailed off, then cleared her throat.

Castiel understood her meaning. If his experience at the college from which he'd just graduated was any indication, Gadreel probably wasn't held in the highest regard amongst his peers.

"Anyway!" Charlie sighed, and her breath seemed to blow away the tension in the air. "I'm looking forward to seeing you around. You seem like a pretty decent guy."

Unsure of how to respond, Castiel just said, "Thank you."

It was his day off. Why did rich people always have to get into trouble on Saturdays? Couldn't they just, for once, leave it until a work day?

Sam Winchester marched with purpose through the Jackson County Jail, briefcase in hand.

"Dammit, Ruby!" he exclaimed upon coming face-to-face with the offending client. "Can't you keep your hand in your own pocket for one weekend?"

"Sorry," said the bashful brunette from the opposite side of the plexiglass. "Old habits, you know."

"Well, your 'old habits' are interfering with my personal ones." He flipped open his briefcase. "I'm posting bail for you, but I swear to God that I will not back you up if you do this to me again. I have a cocktail party tonight, do you understand? My brother is going to be there. I see him, like, once a month. Now I'm gonna be doing paperwork until Cinderella's carriage turns back into a pumpkin before I can relax."

"C'mon, Sam," she cooed, "You know I'd never hurt you on purpose."

A few conversations later and the two of them were walking through the front doors toward a slightly-busy back road. Sam strode toward his vehicle, but he paused to put an arm out in front of Ruby.

"Uh-uh, no way," he growled. "I called you a cab; you can wait here. If Dean finds out I did this for you…" He shook his head.

"What? You mean you never told him about all the times you've come to 'rescue' me?" She grabbed on to his outstretched arm and gave him her sweetest smile. "What would I do without you, Sammy?"

He pulled away from her and walked to the other side of his car. "Probably have cleaned up your act."

She pouted. "So, I'll see you around?"

He pointed, wearing a scolding expression. "No! Behave!"

"I told you not to kill it." Jo Harvelle seemed genuinely offended when Dean plopped a huge body bag onto her desk.

He made a frustrated face, palms skyward. "Oh, sorry for defending myself."

She unzipped the bag, gave the body a quick examination, and glared up at him. "You defended yourself eight times with a silver knife?"

"In the sewer, in the dark," he added.

Jo huffed in irritation, hanging her head. "Dean, if the Chief gets wind that you did this again…"

"He won't."

She looked at him with a solemn expression. "You are a better agent than this, Winchester. I expect more from you. You are more than capable of detaining all manner of creatures alive and well."

He fidgeted. "They're easier to manage if they can't talk back."

"Dean. I've seen you do it."

There was a moment of silence. Dean took a step forward to peer into the bag, before looking back up at Jo. "Yeah?" His tone was biting. "Well that was then."

With a huff, he spun around and marched out of the dark office.

The interview was going well. Castiel's only impression was that Robert Singer and Gordon Walker liked him. In turn, they each expressed pleasant surprise at his marks and achievements; he wasn't sure why. Castiel himself was a bit shocked to learn that anyone could become an agent with a score lower than 100% on a test required to qualify.

"I guess the big question here, Castiel," Walker closed the file in his hands and set it down on his desk, laying his hands atop it. "Is this: Do you think you're ready to get out there on the front line?"

It took Castiel a moment to understand the question, so he paused, and then he nodded. "Yes. I am ready."

Walker drummed the file beneath his hands. "Good! If you'll step back into the outer office so that the Chief and I can determine which agent would be best suited to you at this time, please."

Cas nodded and stood, extending his hand to respectfully offer a handshake to the gentlemen who were now his superiors.

He didn't have a long wait. It was maybe two minutes before the chiefs stepped through Singer's office door. Walker handed him a small, black leather wallet. "Congratulations, Agent Castiel," he said, "Welcome to Kansas City. We're pairing you up with Winchester. He'll be here for his debriefing any minute. You can meet-"

"Actually, I'd like to get him familiar with HQ before we start introducing him to...people." Singer mumbled the last part with an uncertain look at Walker.

The Section Chief balked momentarily, before nodding. "Right. Go ahead, then!" He nodded to the both of them. "If you'll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish. I'd like to enjoy myself without burden at the shindig. Again, pleasure to meet you, Castiel."

"Shindig?" Castiel inquired, watching the man leave.

Singer grumbled incoherently, then said, "Bureau's throwing some fancy cocktail dress party. Excuse for the suits to get drunk while they're in town auditing, if you ask me." He sighed and turned, slightly. "Charlie?"

Charlie's attention snapped from her computer screen. "Yes? Sir?"

"Would you mind showing Castiel around? I gotta be here when Winchester gets in."

"Yes sir!" She stood and picked up her coffee cup. "I needed some fresh coffee, anyway! Come on, Cas. I'll show ya the ropes." She smiled and headed toward the door, short skirt clinging tightly to her legs as she walked.

Singer gave him a pat on the shoulder, and Castiel took a deep breath before following the receptionist back into the gloomy hallway.

" _No way._ " Dean's response to the word 'partner' came out of his mouth before Bobby could even finish his sentence.

The chief exhaled slowly, reigning in his temper. "You've been on your own for months, Dean. Don't you think it's time to-"

"Absolutely not! I work better on my own. Thanks, though." In one motion, he plopped into a chair and slammed his report on to Singer's desk. "Here's what happened in St. Peter's."

"How do you already have your report typed up?" Bobby Singer's question was not only suspicious, but accusing.

Dean shrugged. "No biggie, standard snag n' bag."

"Did you already report to Harvelle?"

"Ye-p." Dean popped the 'p,' refusing to make eye contact and bouncing his leg, trying to convey his impatience to leave the room.

"Winchester, is she going to bring me bad news?"

"Shouldn't," he shrugged, "but I guess that's a matter of interpretation."

Singer reluctantly slid the file toward himself and flipped it open.

"Can I go?" Dean asked.

"No." The chief looked up and gave his agent a stern stare. "His name is Castiel. You're going to meet him at the party tonight. You're gonna be cordial and you're gonna make him feel welcome, got that?"

"Yeah, yeah, play nice with the new kid, I got it."

"Dean."

"Understood! Yes. Yes, sir."

By the time 4:00 rolled around, Sam was actually very nearly finished with the day's paperwork. The desk in his home office was completely covered in papers, some large with typed print, some small and ripped with notes scribbled in near-illegible hand. Sam leaned back in a leather seat, taking a moment to crack his neck and stare out the window before him. The small expanse of grass between his home and the back road behind his house was brown and patchy. The winter had been a particularly dry, cold one, and Sam had never been much for yard-upkeep, so his lawn was struggling. It looked so ugly against the neighbor's vibrant, green grass.

A vibration on Sam's desk alerted him to a phone call from his brother. He picked up the phone and held it for a moment, staring with gritted teeth at the caller ID, before answering. "It couldn't wait until tonight?"

"Sorry, man. Just need to vent a little. I'll make it short, I promise."

Sam sighed and turned slightly in his chair to lean his elbow on the desk. "They gave you a partner, didn't they."

"How'd you know?"

"Because literally the only reason you ever call me is to bitch about how much you hate the new guy."

"He's an angel."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Really? Huh. I thought that guy already had a partner?"

Dean laughed. "No, this guy's a rookie. Fresh from Quantico."

"Oh, man. What's he like?"

"Dunno, haven't met him yet."

"Why not?"

"I bet Singer wants me to have a drink before I do. Whatever. Can you believe that? They put me with a fucking angel rookie."

"Dean, keep it down," Sam hushed.

"Whatever, Sam, you know I'm not racist."

"Yeah, I know that, but the entire FBI doesn't know that, so how about you don't say anything that could get you fired, okay?"

"Sure. Anyway, you coming tonight?"

"You bet! Had me at 'open bar.'"

"You gonna bring a date?"

"Are _you_?"

Dean chuckled. "Alright, I'll see ya tonight, little brother."

"See ya, Dean." Ending the call, Sam looked at the probably-hour's worth of paperwork left before him. He sighed and scooped it all into one, neat stack and set it atop his briefcase. It could wait until tomorrow; he had a party to attend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: "When the wine is in, so is Sam."**

Downtown Kansas City wasn't a place that Dean liked to be, at all, ever, for any reason, period. It was crowded and smelled a little bit like sewage sometimes, and the damn crosswalks emitted a noisy " _WAIT!"_ when the button was pressed, and some pedestrians really liked pushing that button over and over until Dean had the urge to break the traffic light pole.

When he finally arrived at the party, Dean was greeted by a brief side-hug from his brother, followed by a "Nice of you to join us, Agent Winchester." from Singer.

"Parking was a nightmare," Dean offered, gratefully accepting the beer that Sam offered.

"You know there's valet parking, right?" Sam asked with a squint of his eyes.

"You kidding? Trust a rental car to some 18-year-old who expects to be tipped for adding dings - dings that I'm gonna have to pay for - to a vehicle that I hate? I don't think so." He took a long drink from the bottle and then smacked his lips.

Sam sighed. "I don't suppose you paid for parking?"

"Nope. I parked at the Denny's on Broadway."

"Dean, that's like six blocks."

Dean held up his left hand to signify the number five, while his right lifted the drink again to his lips.

"You walked five blocks in a suit and dress shoes."  
Bobby grunted a little laugh.

Dean nodded and smirked. "Hell of a lot cheaper than a new paint job." He cleared his throat and shifted on his feet, looking around the reception hall. The bureau had really gone all-out; the place was adorned from the ceiling to the floor with black-and-orange crepe papers and some sort of paper-mache-bone chains. On the opposite side of the room, barely visible beyond the crowd, a horribly hideous ice sculpture of Edgar J. Hoover was placed atop a splotchy red tablecloth and surrounded by what looked like trays of cheese, crackers, veggies, and other snacky refreshments.

"I know where I'm supposed to be." He gave Sam a pat on the shoulder. "I missed dinner!"

"I'll be there in a minute," the chief chimed in. "Someone I want you to meet."

Dean pursed his lips and gave a stiff nod. "Right. I'll be by the li'l smokies." He took off before he could be directed in any way other than the refreshment table.

When he arrived at his destination, Becky Rosen from the IT department was also there, practically guarding the cheeses. When Dean spotted her, his first instinct was to turn tail, but his stomach rumbled in objection, so he trekked on.

"Hi, Dean," Becky called before he even reached the table.

"Hey," Dean said, shortly. He took a toothpick out of the decorative cup on the table and stabbed a little sausage with it, gingerly reaching past the girl to get a square of cheddar.

"How is everything?" She asked. She clutched in one hand a fruity, yellow drink, and with her free hand she casually stirred.

Dean winced and quickly ate what he had. Becky's voice was shrill and eager, and it felt a little bit like someone was poking his eardrum when she spoke.

"Everything's fine," Dean said, mouth full.

She bit her lip and looked into her glass. "Did your brother make it tonight?"

Dean glanced across the room; Sam wasn't where he'd left him. A quick sweep was all it took to find Sam at the makeshift bar: a folding table manned by two servers in front of several racks of wine, beer, and spirits. He had a fresh glass of champagne in his hand and was talking to a young field agent. Her name was Moore, if Dean's memory served.

Dean glanced at Becky, who was looking way too expectant. He grinned and pointed. "Yeah, he's over at the bar, chatting up some blonde. You should go say hi."

Becky's smile widened. "Thanks, Dean!"

Castiel had been unsure about attending the evening festivities. He wasn't entirely certain that a cocktail party was an appropriate place to become acquainted with someone he'd be working closely with, but maybe a less formal setting than the office would put his partner's mind at ease about being paired with him.

Charlie spotted him from across the room and waved. She was wearing a cheerful smile and a red dress that looked very expensive. As she approached him, Castiel thought she must have been anticipating this event for quite some time. Her hair was arranged neatly at the base of her skull, and the front had almost no flyaways. The shoes she wore seemed to slightly impair her ability to walk, but he supposed they did make her legs look longer, which was an effect that some woman desired from clothing. She was much more put-together here than she had been earlier that day in Chief Singer's office.

"Cas!" She greeted. "Hi! You made it!"

He nodded, hands clasped in front of him. "As did you, I see."

Charlie giggled a little, clutching a small handbag that matched the color of her dress. "You look like you're having...fun." She said the last word a little sarcastically. "Have you talked to anybody yet?"

"You are the first person to approach me," he replied. "I wouldn't know where to begin otherwise."

"Just mingle!" She offered. "I'm going to get something to drink. You should come with me!"

"Thank you, but I don't drink. Anything."

"Neither do I, not really. I mean, I drink liquids, obviously. I love coffee, and I mean we all need water, but I never really drink alcohol. Last time I got drunk..." She shrugged, taking him by the arm. "I meant you should come with me for the company."

"Oh," Castiel nodded again, curtly. "Alright." He followed her through the crowd of people to a small serving table. The crowd grew denser in this part of the room, _most likely due to the alcoholic beverages being free_ , Castiel thought.

They came upon a young, brown-haired woman deliberately blocking their path, holding a beer in one hand and a champagne in the other. "Charlie!" She exclaimed.

"Susan!" Charlie responded with equal enthusiasm. "Wow, I didn't expect to see you here! How are you?"

Castiel looked at the redhead beside him when the pressure on his arm intensified. She was definitely expecting to see this Susan woman here, possibly even anticipating it. She must have some reason for lying.

"It's so great to see you after all this time!" She offered Charlie an awkward hug, squeezing her back with her wrists. "Sorry, I'm waiting for Victor to come back and take this sweaty bottle from me."

"Oh, you're his date tonight?" Charlie shifted a little when she spoke.

"Yeah, he uh, he hit me up last week and asked if I'd like to come. 'Why not,' I said, 'be great to see some old buddies from the bureau!' So what's up, is this your plus one?"

Charlie's laugh was nervous. "Yeah, this is Cas," she explained. "He just got here from Quantico this morning." She spoke as if her words should have strong impact.

"Wow!" Susan raised her eyebrows. "You work fast, Charlie! Way to go!"

A man appeared by Susan's side and wrapped his arm around her waist, taking the beer from her hand. "Thank you," he said. "Hi, Charlie!"

"Agent Henricksen, hi! This is Castiel. He just got here this morning."

"Nice to meet you, man." Henricksen removed himself from Susan for a moment to extend for a handshake, which Cas accepted. "Good to have you on the team."

"It's nice to meet you, too." Castiel responded. "Thank you."

"We were just on our way to get something to drink," Charlie piped up. "But uh, enjoy the party! It was really great seeing you again, Susan." She gave a passing smile to Susan's date, squeezing Castiel's arm tightly now, and circled around them to the liquor table. Her face was flushed.

Castiel's brow furrowed. "Are you alright?"

"I'm sorry I did that to you," Charlie whispered. "Excuse me, can I get a mojito?" Her question was in a raised voice, but then she reverted to a whisper. "I didn't mean to bump into her yet, I wasn't...uh, prepared."

"You did mean to bump into her?" Castiel inferred.

"Yeah. Well, sort of. I was kind of hoping...when Victor told me he would be bringing her here tonight I kinda freaked out and spent too much money on a new dress, and now that she's actually here in person I don't know if I can talk to her, you know?"

Cas narrowed his eyes. "Do you have...feelings for this woman?"

Charlie blushed. "Well, yeah, I guess you could say that."

A server stepped up to them. "ID, miss?"

Charlie glared at him. "Seriously? I'm twenty-nine." When he just stared, she huffed and released Castiel's arm to zip open her clutch. "Sorry. I appreciate you doing your job properly." She handed him an identification card. He studied it momentarily before nodding and handing it back.

"What did you say you wanted?"

"A mojito." She paused. "Can you make it a double?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, only supposed to give you one drink per hour."

"Dammit," Charlie muttered. "Okay. Thanks."

"Why are you so eager to impress this woman?" Castiel asked, once Charlie turned back to him.

"I don't know," Charlie sighed. "I always kind of liked her, and I was a little upset when she retired because I really thought we had something, you know? Like a connection or...something." She shrugged. "It's probably stupid."

Castiel sighed a little. "It is possible that you perceived what you wanted to rather than an actual...connection."

"That's what I'm afraid of!" She nearly whined the words. "I was gonna try and figure it out tonight, make my move sort of thing, you know?" She pouted. "I don't know if I'm brave enough to, though."

With a brief glance at his surroundings, Cas took a moment to decide what to say next. He did not wish to dishearten someone who had been nothing but kind to him since his arrival, but he sincerely doubted that Susan would be interested in Charlie. Nothing about her body language when they encountered each other suggested sexual desire or arousal, which would have been more difficult to gauge if she didn't respond with interest to the male who approached her moments later. She was definitely interested in him.

"If you would like," Castiel finally said, "I could speak to her on your behalf and inquire as to whether she also felt something for you."

Charlie looked mortified. "No! You can't do that. Thank you for the offer, Cas, but please don't ever repeat any of this to Susan at any time for any reason."

Castiel had heard many times of unrequited love in stories, films, classic fairy tales, and the like, but this was the first time in all his years among humans that he had ever actually seen it, up-close in-person.

"There you are, Castiel," The voice belonged to Chief Singer. "Glad I finally found you!" He acknowledged Charlie with a smile and a nod. "There's somebody I'd like for you to meet."

Charlie accepted her drink from the server, who winked when she took it. She raised it immediately to her lips. Her eyes popped open a little bit, and she looked at the bartender. "Thank you very much," she read his nametag, "Stan."

He nodded and turned to the next person ordering.

"Will you be alright?" Cas asked.

Charlie was consuming her beverage far too quickly. She nodded and gave him a thumbs-up, still holding her clutch with her fingers.

"Glad to see you're making friends." Singer laughed.

Sam knew that voice. He knew it from years of tutoring, followed immediately by years of dodging and avoiding and pretending not to notice when the voice's owner was standing ten feet away with her back turned.

 _Becky Rosen_.

This was absolutely not a good time. He had finally caught the attention of Jessica Moore, the only FBI agent he ever really wanted to talk to. He was finding that she was exactly as intelligent as people said, and she was even prettier up close. She stood in front of him now, a black dress tightly hugging her generous hips, blond hair pulled tight and high on her head. Even in heels, she was still about a foot shorter than him, but damn if she wasn't the most beautifully intimidating woman Sam had ever had the absolute pleasure to converse with, and it was all about to fall apart because of Becky Rosen.

"Sam! Hi!" The young computer technician quickly encroached upon his space, cutting off Jess mid-sentence and actually stepping between them. "How are you?!"

Moore's face read disbelief. "Hi." She said, loudly, bending a little to speak directly into Becky's ear.

"Becky," Sam forced a smile, trying to apologize with his eyes to Jessica. "How nice to see you here."

Becky completely ignored the woman behind her and stepped further into Sam's personal space, nearly touching him. "I'm so glad you could make it tonight! Dean said you might not be coming."

"He said that, did he." Sam stepped backward, nearly bumping into a redhead at the bar.

"He said that you were really busy with lawyer stuff, which I get because, you know, you're super smart and I always knew you were gonna be a great attorney, but I guess you found time, huh?"

"Excuse me, miss," Jess placed a hand calmly on Becky's shoulder, and while the women were distracted Sam tossed his champagne back with one long draw while Jessica explained that her and Sam were in the middle of a conversation, and would she please excuse them for a few moments?

"Well, if you don't mind I am actually an old college friend of his," Becky responded. "I know that you were probably having a fun chat and all, but it's been ages and I just thought I'd stop and say hi."

"That's sweet, but don't you think it's a little rude to just...butt into a conversation?"

"Do you really mean to keep two college sweethearts apart?!" Becky's tone was incredulous, and she leaned against Sam, arm creeping around his waist.

Sam shuddered and brushed her off. "Not sweethearts," he muttered. "Agent Moore, I don't know if you know Becky, but she and I went to Stanford together. I was her tutor our first year there, we graduated together." He firmly placed his hand on her shoulder when she tried to lean against him again.

"Oh," Moore gave a small nod. "Alright. I know Becky. You're a hacker or something, right?"

Becky scowled. "I write code. I keep your job relevant. Without me and my team, your entire division would fall apart in a week."

The agent's smile was insincere. "Right. I knew you were important for something like that. I catch the bad guys. I keep your team alive."

Becky's countenance fell, and she shrugged a little. "Right. We all play our roles."

"You ladies both have very important jobs," Sam offered. "I wouldn't have a job without both of you, so..uh, thanks."

"Aw, you're welcome." Becky smirked. "Always happy to help old friends!" She laughed.

"Yeah. Uh, I'm gonna visit the ladies' room. Sam, nice to meet you. Becky."

"See you around the office, Moore!" Becky called after her.

Once the agent was gone, Sam abruptly spun to face Becky. "Why do you do that? Why do you keep telling people that we dated at Stanford?"

Becky frowned. "Well, we had that one night where we-"

"You, Becky. We had that one night where you confessed your love for me, and I told you that I'm not ready for that kind of relationship, and that I'm not attracted to you like that."

"Why?" Her voice was raised. "Why can't you be attracted to me 'like that,' Sam? What does that mean? I'm not pretty enough or smart enough or-" she motioned toward the restroom "-blonde enough?"

"Okay, please just..keep it down-"

"Sorry!" Her tone lowered to an angry whisper. "I thought we had something, Sam. No, I know we had something! You even said you liked me!"

"I said you were a great student, and I liked tutoring you, and I meant it, Becky, I really did, but you have got to stop obsessing over me and move on. Please."

"Don't you see? I can't move on! I tried! For years, I tried and I tried. I've dated other guys...okay, I dated one guy, but it just wasn't the same. He doesn't understand me like you do!"

"I don't understand anything about you." Sam muttered.

"And he isn't as good looking...tall, or muscular. He doesn't have your strong jaw and flowing locks…"

A pang between his eyes signified the onset of a headache. Sam exhaled slowly. "Trust me, Becky, if you really try to move on you will find that there are plenty of men in this world who are just as good-looking as I am-better, even! They're out there! I've seen them!"

"But they aren't you."

Sam was going to need something stronger than champagne.

Dean had never eaten so many smoked sausages in a row in his life. At least, not in the past decade or so. His stomach protested loudly to being stuffed with so much grease, but his taste buds were happy and that was really all he cared about at that second.

When he was fairly certain nobody important was looking, he pulled a small tin flask filled with whiskey out of his blazer pocket and chugged. It left a pleasant burn in its wake, doubtlessly aggravating his stomach further, but that was a problem that could be dealt with in the morning. He stood against the wall, head leaned back and eyes closed, until a wave of relaxation washed over his tight shoulders and neck. The drink was already taking effect. He opened his eyes and sighed with relief. The room felt a little less crowded in this corner. He thought about fighting his way back to the snack table, but there were just so many people between him and the food. They gathered around with little paper plates and filled them, then stood in front of the table for some unexplainable reason instead of clearing the way for other guests. It was a behavior pattern that Dean frequently noticed at parties like this one, which was exactly why he hated parties like this one.

"Get your shit and leave," he muttered to nobody, sipping some more from his flask.

"Winchester!" That was the Chief's voice. It was not the voice he wanted to be hearing right this second. He stuffed the flask back into his pocket and turned away swiftly, hoping that if he didn't acknowledge the beckon that Singer would think he'd mistakenly recognized him.

"Dean! Get over here!"

No such luck. With a sharp exhale, Dean turned around and then plastered on an irritated smile. "What's up, Chief?"

Standing next to Bobby was a young man in a slightly-wrinkled suit. His hair was all manner of messy, and his eyes looked tired.

 _The Rookie,_ Dean thought, sourly.

"Dean, this is Castiel, your new partner. Castiel, Dean Winchester."

The Rookie stiffly raised his arm, hand poised for a shake. "It's an honor to meet you."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Best place for this, Chief?" He asked. Bobby shot him a look that was positively deadly, so Dean relented and accepted the awkward handshake. "Nice ta meet you, too."

Singer reached over and patted Dean roughly on the shoulder, muttering "be nice" through his teeth before throwing Castiel a smile. "I'll let you two get acquainted." He gave Dean one last, stern glare before walking away.

Just like that, Dean was left trying to think of something nice to say to this guy he was going to have to work with. He actually felt a little bad for the guy; this Castiel character didn't seem to really have any sort of idea what to do next, and he looked a little timid, studying Dean with vibrant blue eyes. The stare was actually kind of...intense.

Dean cleared his throat and tried his best to make polite conversation. "So...how long you been in Kansas City?"

"I arrived only this morning," Castiel replied.

"I see. And you had the, uh, misfortune of bein' paired with me, huh?"

"Misfortune? I believe you to be an exemplary field agent. You have the highest closing ratio in the bureau. Chief Singer speaks very highly of you."

With an amused chuckle, Dean said "Oh, does he?" and again retrieved his flask for another swig. For several long moments, the two were left just standing, facing each other, with no words between them.

Dean studied the decorations, noticing for the first time little plastic spiders dangling from the streamers. False cobwebs wrapped around the legs of the refreshment table and adorned the near corners of the room. They were strung haphazardly over the capacity sign near the restroom doors, as well as the restroom signs.

When he could no longer take the discomfort, Dean sighed. "Look, Castiel, I'm sure you're gonna have all sorts of fun catchin' bad guys and whatnot, but I don't think that we are gonna work out. See, I don't really do the whole 'partner' thing too well. Might be better if you tried to get reassigned, okay? You can tell 'em whatever you want, I was a dick to you, I'm too closed off, whatever. Won't be anything new to anyone, I'm sure. And, no offense man, but I don't need some Rookie slowing me down when it matters, 'kay?"

Castiel's expression narrowed. "I don't understand. We have not even worked together yet, we don't have any way of knowing how-"

"I just know, alright? Been there, done that before." He pressed his lips into a firm line and shook his head. "Never ends well. Best you just...find a partner who can actually, you know, work with a partner." He finished off the whiskey while Castiel stared at him with a slightly incredulous countenance, and then he pointed toward the bar across the room. "I'm gonna go over there and get another beer."

The "discussion" with Becky was getting completely out of hand. She had become hysterical, crying when Sam asked her to leave him be for the evening, and now Chuck Shurley, who worked at the desk beside her, had chimed in to try and talk Becky down from her hysteria. When he saw Dean approaching, he nearly clung to his brother for dear life, grabbing his arm and stopping him dead in his tracks.

The look of irritation on Dean's face quickly faded into one of amusement and, in a falsely empathetic tone, Dean said, "Oh, Sammy. Were you bein' mean to her again?"

Sam felt more blood rushing to his cheeks as Dean proceeded to "comfort" Becky, giving her a tentative pat on the back and uttering "there, there," all while looking like he would laugh at any moment. Sam tried to leave while she was distracted blubbering her troubles to Dean, but Chuck was standing between Sam and his exit route, arms crossed.

"Shame on you," he muttered, shaking his head slowly.

"But I didn't-"

"Oh, but you did." He moved to protectively crowd Becky. Sam sighed in exasperation and turned to ask the bartender for another drink, who refused with an apology. When he looked back, Dean was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, Becky was now telling her entire life's story to Chuck, who answered every sentence with, "I know, I know."

By the time Dean was done flirting with virtually every woman at the event, the hall had mostly cleared out. A couple of the suits were still present, somehow very awake and engaging in loud conversation. Dean was finishing his eighth or ninth sandwich for the evening (he had honestly stopped counting) and gave his watch a glance: 3:04 AM. He gave a slight chuckle; it had been a long time since he'd been out this late, and he hadn't really done it since his party days. He felt quite young as he waved goodbye to Agent Milligan, a scrawny young field agent with an ungodly stamina, and headed out the revolving doors into the dark city. Dim street lights gave an ugly illumination to the sidewalk, and Dean started his five-block trek back to the Denny's parking lot where that boring sedan was parked. He walked by a vagrant, sleeping with a coat over his head, huddled into the corner of a little boutique doorway. Other than that and the occasional sound of cats mewling in the alleyways, the city was dead quiet. A car or two passed him. It was actually pretty eerie.

The bright lights of Denny's were welcoming. As Dean padded closer, however, a sick feeling settled into his stomach; the car wasn't where he left it. In fact, when he got closer, it was pretty obvious that the car wasn't in the parking lot at all. Anxiety fluttered within Dean, and he ran into the tiny lot. It was completely empty.

Swallowing panic, he burst through the double doors of the diner, which was also empty save for a thin old man wiping down tables.

"'Scuse me," Dean called, startling the waiter. "Hey, you know where my car went?"

"I'm sorry? Your car?" The man asked in a husky, frail voice.

"Yeah, had it parked just out there," he gestured to the large window leading to the parking lot. "About seven or eight hours ago. Silver, four doors, pretty normal looking."

"I'm sorry sonny, I haven't seen your car, but the manager was here about an hour ago and had a couple of cars towed. Parking is for customers only, after all."

"I'm a customer!" Dean exclaimed. "I mean, not right this second, but I am definitely a Denny's customer! Gah." He whipped out his cell phone. He hated to disturb Sam at this hour, but he needed a ride.

The battery was dead.

Dean clenched and unclenched his jaw a couple of times, staring at the black screen in disbelief. Of course his cell was dead.

"Hey, c'n I use your phone?"

"We don't have a public phone, I'm sorry."

"Can I borrow your cell?"

The old man gave a wheezy laugh and shook his head. "Don't got one. Sorry."

"Then just let me use the store phone!" Dean sighed and softened his tone. "Please. It's the middle of the night, I'm stranded. That was a rental your dickhead boss had towed. I'm gonna have to pay a fortune to get it fixed if there is any damage."

"Sorry, can't. Store policy. But I wish you the best of luck." He shuffled behind the counter, tossing the rag into a red bucket on the bar, before disappearing into the kitchen.

"Oh, come on!" Dean shouted. He growled and stormed back outside. He paced the parking lot a few times, hands on his head, trying to come up with a plan. He could try to walk to the bus stop, but that was miles away, and he wasn't even sure he had any cash. He pulled out his wallet to check: six dollars. _Will that even cover bus fare these days?_ he wondered. Worse still, the October night air was starting to seep through his suit jacket. Well, November now, he supposed.

He sighed and trod back into the restaurant. At least in there it was warm. Maybe he could wait for another patron to come in and talk to them.

"Back to shout at me some more?" The waiter was back in the dining room.

Dean sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, alright? It's been a long night. I'd just like to get a cup of coffee."

"Sure." The waiter gestured to a booth near the door. "Have a seat. Anything else I can get ya?"

"No thanks." Dean paused. "Actually, yeah. Pancakes sounds good."

"Coffee and pancakes. You got it."

Dean nodded with a tense smile. He really hoped that someone would be crazy enough to go downtown for Denny's at 3AM.

"...sonny. Sir, you can't sleep here."

"Huh?!" Dean startled and sat upright, nearly knocking over a full glass of water.

"Sorry, you can't sleep here. You gotta order something or go. Store-"

"Yeah yeah, store policy." Dean groaned and wiped some crumbs off his face that he'd picked up laying on the table. "Can I get my ticket?"

"You already paid, sir."

"Oh. Right. Okay." Dean slid out of the booth, feeling woozy and a little sick to his stomach. It was just after 5 now, and he stumbled outside. The air was colder than he remembered, and everything was slightly damp and smelled like wet foliage.

He couldn't quite think well enough to plan a next step, so he found the dryest patch of ground he could find and sat down. He removed his jacket and slung it over his torso like a very tiny, itchy blanket. He leaned against the brick wall behind him and closed his eyes. Maybe the cops would come get him. Sammy would be able to bail him out and take him home, then. Dean drifted off to the thought of a hot shower.

When next he awoke, it was to a confused, "Agent Winchester?" coming from a gruff, unfamiliar voice above him.

Dean was cold, his-bones-felt-like-ice and he-couldn't-feel-his-ass cold. His fingers ached. His neck ached. His throat felt like he tried to eat a colony of fire ants. He vocalized accordingly, a sort of groaning grumbling grunt coming from him.

"Agent Winchester, are you alright?"

He fought to open his eyes in the harsh sunlight. A blurry figure hovered over him. Dean startled, throwing his jacket to the ground and standing upright. _Bad idea,_ he thought, as blood rushed away from his head and his vision darkened. He couldn't tell if he was falling or not, but strong hands gripped his arms and held him upright.

"You appear to have slept in a terrible position."

That voice was starting to ring a bell in Dean's head now. It was that guy, the angel guy from the party. _What was his name?_

"Call me...Dean." He slurred. The words tasted like stale liquor and coffee, with a mild undertone of banana pancakes. "Oh, god." He could feel bile rise to his throat.

"And you are extremely dehydrated. Did you not consume water upon leaving the event yesterday evening?"

Dean couldn't answer, couldn't even move. He just hunched over and vomited.

"I will assume you did not." The angel stated. He was pretty calm for someone who'd just nearly been puked on. Well, for someone who had a little bit of puke on their shoes.

Dean's head started to pound. His blood rushed loudly in his ears. As his senses finally began to return, he had the good sense to suddenly be extremely embarrassed.

"Oh. Oh god. I'm so...I'm so sorry, man, I didn't mean to...those are nice shoes."

"It's alright, Agent. They will come clean."

"Dean, dammit. Some guys chucks on your...chucks...you get to use his first name."

"Dean."

 _Castiel_. That was what he was called.

Dean thought he was going to hurl again when he felt another lump rise to his throat, and this time he was able to turn away, but it was just a loud, relieving burp. The queasiness started to ease.

"Do you require assistance in getting home?"

"The car!" Dean exclaimed suddenly. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"Alright." Castiel reached into his pocket and produced a little black flip phone. _Old fashioned._ Dean thought. _Nice._

He stumbled to the sign near the front of the lot that read, "Parking for Denny's Customers Only." With a warning about unauthorized vehicles being towed and a phone number to call, which he quickly punched in.

"See if I eat at fucking Denny's ever again, douchebag." Dean muttered as the line rang. When he got a live person, he learned that they would not be bringing his car to his location. He would have to go pick it up. Dean responded with a flurry of swears and insults which got him nothing but a disconnect.

"I can take you to retrieve your car," Castiel offered. "I am parked not far from here."

Dean turned to give him a suspicious glare. "Hey, wait a second. What are you doin' here, anyway?"

"I...I was waiting for you. I meant to speak with you after you left, but I encountered a distraction while waiting. I tried calling the number that Chief Singer gave me for you later on, but I immediately received a recorded message. Your voice mail box is full, Dean. You should delete some messages to make room for more."

Dean just stared at him. "Yeah, okay, I'll do that. So you were waiting for me? How the hell did you even find me?"

"I went looking when you did not answer your cell phone or your home phone. I called your brother, and he said that you were still here when he left. He told me where you parked and said to look for you there. That was after I spoke with the woman at his home."

Eyebrows raised, Dean smirked. _Good job, Sammy._

"I came here looking for you, and that is when I found you unconscious on the ground. I did not want to disturb you, but when you began to whimper I found it would be in your best interested to be awakened."

A darker blush crept into Dean's cheeks. He glared. "I don't whimper, okay? Probably just couldn't breathe or somethin'. 'Cause it's friggin cold outside." He cleared his throat, scuffing his shoes on the deteriorating parking lot asphalt. "But uh, yeah. If you got a ride, I'd be happy to, uh, ride with you to the tow lot. If ya don't mind."

"Happy to help," Castiel promised. His expression and his tone were sincere. Dean followed him out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, toward Castiel's car. That hot shower was only a couple hours away.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

I'm so glad you are all enjoying this! There is much more to come, I have a few chapters roughly drafted so I'm just smoothing them out before posting them here. This story has been in the works for a very long time, with very slow progress, but I think it's time to gift it to the world! You're welcome ;D I always welcome feedback, criticism, and of course praise so feel free to drop a comment! Love you guys, see you soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: "The antidote for fifty enemies is Castiel."**

November seemed to have brought along with it the harsh reality of winter. Arctic temperatures swept in from the North, and Dean hugged his jacket closer to his body, fighting the wind that nearly blew the door of his rental car shut on his legs. It was at least twenty degrees colder on that Monday morning than it had been the previous day. It was true what most Kansas residents said: _If you don't like the weather here, wait a day._ Dean cursed quietly, walking briskly toward the Kansas City FBI Field Office.

Upon entering the building, he was immediately intercepted by Chief Singer's assistant, who shoved a slim folder into his hands. "You're going to Liberal" she said, cheerfully.

Dean groaned. "Come on, Charlie, I haven't even had my coffee yet."

Charlie pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, walking now alongside Dean as he beelined for the break room. "Sorry, I know it's early but there's been a murder out by that Oz exhibit and local PD has no idea what they're doing. It's a doozy, looks like a serial killer, maybe."

Dean made an acknowledging noise. He pushed the break room door open and headed straight for the latte machine. After digging in his coat pocket for change, he fed it into the machine and waited impatiently for the thing to dispense a cup of dark, bitter liquid.

Charlie took the file back from Dean and flipped it open, gesturing to the photo of an extremely mutilated body; the torso was mangled and riddled with jagged holes. "I mean, look at this."

Dean scrunched his eyes shut. "C'mon, Bradbury, that is not how I want to start my morning."

She closed the folder. "Just be grateful that you didn't have to find him like that. You better get steppin'. Your new partner has already been briefed and will be waiting for you in your office." She turned on her heel, loose hair bouncing about her shoulders as she left.

It took a moment for Dean to register her words. "My new - hey!" He retrieved the little styrofoam cup from the coffee dispenser and chased after her. "I ain't taking him to Liberal!" When he burst through the break room doors, he nearly ran into Agent Milligan. The jolt caused his cup to tip, and hot liquid sloshed out onto his pants. Dean yelped, and there was a _crash_ as Milligan dropped the porcelain mug he was carrying in a fright.

"Oh my gosh! Agent Winchester!"

"Watch where you're going!" Dean snapped. The collision had jarred his not-quite-healed pinky, and pain resonated from the appendage up nearly to his elbow.

"I'm so sorry," Milligan was crouched now, collecting the shattered pieces of his coffee cup from the floor. "Gosh, I didn't even see you there. My apologies."

Dean exhaled slowly, watching Milligan's frantic movements. "S'alright," Dean huffed. "Sorry, kid."

"No worries. I've got it. I'm uh...sorry about your coffee."

"That's okay. Still got some in the cup." Dean forced a tight smile before making his way further down the hall and stepping into the elevator.

Castiel was waiting in his office, just like Bradbury had promised. He was sitting, back straight and rigid, in one of the two chairs in front of Dean's desk. Dean cleared his throat, announcing his presence, and the Rookie turned to look at him.

"Good morning, Agent Winchester," he greeted. He spoke in an odd, pleasant monotone. Dean found it a little creepy.

"Morning," Dean grumbled. "So, I hear you an' me are going on a road trip."

"If you are referring to the murder investigation you and I are to take part in, then yes."

Dean sat down across from Castiel. He took in the peculiar garb; he hadn't really noticed how rumpled the angel appeared that weekend, and he could have sworn he was wearing the exact same thing Saturday night at the party and Sunday morning when Dean had embarrassed the hell out of himself in the parking lot.

He felt his cheeks flush, and quickly set his coffee down in favor drying his pant leg with a tissue.

"Pretty routine stuff," Dean mused, casually avoiding looking up at his new companion. "Probably don't really need any backup on this one, I'll head out and ask some questions, get some info. Call ya if I need ya."

"The Chief was very adamant that I accompany you on this investigation," Castiel said. "Besides, how am I to begin field training if I stay behind? I feel it is best that we drive out together."

Dean tossed a damp, discolored tissue in the trash and grabbed two more, grumbling in irritation. It was way too early to be dealing with this shit.

"Fine." He conceded. "We're leaving in an hour. If you ain't here, you ain't comin'. Got it?"

"I understand."

Dean could see Castiel nod stiffly in his periphery.

Dean had no luck shaking the Rookie that morning, so at 9:15 they began the tedious drive to Liberal, Kansas. For six long, boring hours, he stared at the vast expanse of flat, brown, Kansas scenery. It was a quiet drive. This Castiel kid was pretty good at keeping his mouth shut. He didn't argue with any of Dean's radio selections, didn't complain when Dean chose to drive with the windows down despite the sharp, brisk air outside, and he remained silently seated when they stopped for gas in Wichita, the halfway point.

It was a little after 3 in the afternoon when they arrived at the Super 8 motel on Cedar street, where the bureau had so generously offered them the cheapest possible accommodations.

The two agents carried their suitcases to the front desk, and Dean slapped his ID on the counter.

"Had a reservation for two under the name of 'Singer,'" he told the dead-eyed desk clerk.

Dressed in a too-tight blouse, with dark hair fixed as if she'd had a wild work night, she picked up his ID, loudly chewing a piece of gum. She had no nametag, but Dean thought she looked like a 'Shanese' or even a 'Candi' with an 'i'. When she looked at his face, briefly, and then pulled up something on her computer and typed, he decided that she was a Candi with an 'i'. After a moment, Candi reached beneath the desk and retrieved two key cards, which she tossed unceremoniously onto the counter. "205, checkout time is 11:00."

Dean nodded and snatched the keys, along with his ID. "Thanks." Without a glance at Castiel, he started down the hallway toward the elevator.

It was less than five minutes before he returned to the front desk.

"Excuse me, miss? Yeah, I think there's been some sorta mistake. There are two of us. That means we need two beds."

Castiel was right behind him, the tail end of his sentence audible as he approached, saying, "-don't sleep, additional accommodations are unnecessary-"

"Shut it, Cas," Dean bit, looking back at the hotel lady in earnest. "Please, we gotta have a different room. Two beds."

"We're all full, got some Oz thing going on at the park this weekend. That's the only room we got for you, take it or leave it."

"Then we'll go somewhere else," Dean said, reaching into his pocket for the cards.

"Nobody else is gonna have rooms either," Candi promised. "Your guy seriously got the last vacancy. It's a small town. Now, I'd be happy to have a room for a grateful guest, but, honestly, you aren't gonna find anything else. You'll be sleeping in your car, so you can take the one bed and get over your issues with your buddy there or you can risk being out in the cold. It's supposed to get below zero tonight, so I wouldn't take any chances." She popped her gum with an indifferent shrug, glancing back at whatever was happening on her computer screen.

Dean worked his jaw for a moment, staring at the young lady with utter disdain on his features. "Fine."

He turned again and marched, irritably, toward the room to dispense his belongings. "C'mon, Cas, we got work to do!" he called.

Castiel approached the counter and said, softly, "I apologize for my partner. He spilled coffee on himself this morning and this seems to have put him in a bad mood."

"I can hear you!" Dean called from the elevator doors as they opened. "Hurry up!"

Castiel gave a small, apologetic smile, before following Dean up to their single-bed room.

When they returned to the room, Dean let the door slam before Castiel had a chance to enter. He stood, staring at the ugly comforter of the one queen-sized bed in the small hotel room. There wasn't even a couch to sleep on.

Upon entering the room, Cas tried reassurances again. "The one bed will not be an issue. I don't sleep, you can have it to yourself."

"It's the idea of sharin' a hotel room with a dude. A hotel room that only has one bed. The whole hotel staff is gonna know we were both staying here. They don't know about…" He looked over at Castiel, choosing his next words carefully. "...you know. That stuff."

Castiel squinted, cocking his head to the side a bit. "I don't know. What 'stuff'?"

"You know. You...that you don't need any sleep. They couldn't know that."

Head still tilted, Castiel eyed the bed again, before blinking and nodding slowly as though he understood.

Dean scoffed. "Whatever. I'm gonna go get my stuff from the car."

Cas had no qualms whipping out his badge and presenting it to the first uniformed officer he encountered: the Liberty Sheriff's Deputy. Unfortunately, he seemed to be directionally challenged; the thing was upside down.

With an exasperated huff, Dean snatched it from him and flipped it over, placing it back in his hands.

When the policeman stared, indifferent, Dean's cheeks grew hot. "He's uh…" he glanced sideways at Castiel, "he's new." He presented his own badge from his jacket pocket. "We're here about the Frieleng case. We need to see Gary Frieleng."

"Body's back here," Officer Framingham spoke, pointing a thumb toward the back of the station. "I'll get his effects from evidence and meet you at my office when you're ready."

Dean nodded his thanks, shooting Cas one last glare before rounding the front desk toward the morgue.

The Liberty Police Station Mortician, a short, stout woman with frizzy, dirty-blonde hair, pulled the body from a cold locker, a cool fog rolling out of the case. She pulled a white sheet from over the body, and Dean absently ran his thumb over his chin, grimacing; the dude was pretty mangled.

Dean lent a glance to Castiel, who appeared disturbingly unfazed, crouching near the corpse and examining it closely. "Have you made note of these markings?" he asked. "They are quite unique."

"Body's been photographed, sure," the mortician answered. She crossed her arms. "It's not like tattoos are an uncommon thing, though these look like they might be gang related."

On the shoulder of the body were three swirls resembling fingerprints, tattooed darkly in a triangle formation. Dean examined the dead man's face; it looked like he may have been clean-shaven before he bit the dust, dark hair combed neatly to one side and falling into chaos where a gnarly hole broke the skin. Bits of bone protruded from his face, and his right ear was barely attached to the skull. Pale lips were caked in blood, and the victim's neck was bruised and cut like whatever hit his head had taken a swing there, too. His traps bore dark red scratches that carried over his collarbone, onto his chest, and opened into the large jagged openings he remembered from the photograph, and down to his stomach, where it looked like…

Dean shuddered.

It looked like something had tried to tear him open.

"He wasn't in any gang," Dean muttered. The man looked to be in his late 30s, maybe early 40s. He was the suit-wearing type, with gangly arms and protruding ribs, one or two of which poked out through the ghoulish mess of his abdomen. "Poor bastard."

Castiel didn't say a word, which was actually a bit worrisome. Every single newbie that Dean had taken to a mortuary had frozen and either vomited, passed out, or, at the very least, run away from the sight of bodies far less gory than this. Even Dean's seasoned stomach turned uncomfortably, making a loud noise. He made a gesture with his head toward the door. Must have been some angel thing; he'd overheard chatter from Gadreel's first partner, talking about how the "freak of nature" (as he so delicately phrased it) looked at a corpse with the "morbid curiosity of a wild animal." Gadreel being pretty well-known by now as a bit off an oddball, it didn't surprise Dean in retrospect. He hadn't really pegged every angel for being the creepy, practically-sniffing-dead-body type though. Because he didn't lump anyone into stereotypes based on race!

"We should go see what the Deputy has to say," he suggested. He could stand the sight of all sorts of nasty critters, monsters, and the like, but seeing humans nearly dismembered, in what must have been an agonizing death, still upset him.

"Agreed." Castiel concurred, finally averting that creepy gaze from the dead guy. He allowed Dean to lead the way from the cold death room toward the brighter halls of the police station.

The Agent and the Rookie took seats at Officer Framingham's desk. Without a word, the policeman tossed three bags, sealed with bright red tape that read "EVIDENCE" across the top, in front of Dean and Cas.

"All his stuff," he said, shortly, then sat back and allowed Dean to examine the victim's belongings.

In the first bag was a bloody brown leather wallet and some red-stained keys. One of the keys was bent and completely coated in blood. _Must have tried to defend himself,_ he deduced. By that measure, the attacker was most likely a stranger, and he had attacked somewhere between the vic's car and the front door. The second bag held a very tattered copy of _The Wizard of Oz_ , and in the third bag was a peculiar little black jewelry box, engraved with tiny pictures and some scrawl that Dean couldn't decipher.

While Dean was examining the items, Castiel took the liberty to say, "I have a theory."

Framingham raised his eyebrows. "By all means; enlighten me."

"I believe this was the work of demons."

Dean's heart skipped a beat, and he unceremoniously dropped the box on the desk with a sharp _clatter._

Framingham blinked in Castiel's direction, before turning his gaze to Dean and asking, "What did he say?"

"Uh...he said...he said 'demons,'" Dean repeated, hesitantly.

"Yes, demons," Castiel confirmed, nodding with conviction. "I believe that-"

"You know, demons," Dean interrupted. "Drink...adultery…"

"You think that this guy was a cheater?" Framingham looked genuinely intrigued, leaning over his desk.

"Not entirely what I-" Castiel started, but he clamped his mouth shut when Dean glared incredulously at him.

"Uh, I mean, he coulda been, but I don't think she did it." Dean patted the evidence bag containing the wallet and keys. "Attacker would have defensive wounds. I'm assuming you interviewed the wife first thing?"

The officer was quiet, uncertainty showing on his features.

Dean raised his eyebrows and leaned forward, mouth agape. "What - seriously? Guy gets lobotomized on vacation and nobody interrogates the one person most likely to be with him?" He rubbed a hand over his face. "Where is she now?"

"I mean, the wife called 9-1-1 and was on the scene when we got there...she came with us to the station but I guess nobody really thought...could she really be a suspect?"

Dean couldn't look more incredulous if he tried, so instead he stood up. "Get her in here pronto. We gotta talk to her, see what she knows!"

"Sure thing, Agent." Visibly embarrassed, Framingham stood from behind his desk, calling to another officer as he left the room.

"Freakin' ameteur hour in this place," Dean lamented.

"Dean, I don't believe the wife was involved," Castiel said, once they were alone. "And I don't think it was a human who did that to him."

"People can do worse," Dean assured him. "I've seen it. But nah, I don't think she did it either. I do think she probably has an idea who did, but there's no way of tellin' if Deputy Barney here don't conduct a thorough interview."

"You believe she may know who her husband was with at the time of the murder."

"Damn right, I do!"

He had been speaking to Mrs. Frieleng for forty-five minutes, but it was clear that Officer Framingham was getting nowhere with her. The recently-widowed woman was all jitters and nonsense, and she couldn't give a straight answer no matter how the deputy phrased his questions. Dean had taken a shot at it, but still no dice.

She was clearly covering something up.

What that 'something' was, apparently, would be difficult to determine. It seemed to Dean that a proper investigation conducted at the appropriate time would probably have yielded a bit more telling evidence, but the cops had waited a full twenty-four hours before calling in reinforcements. Anyone connected to this murder was, most likely, long gone, and Dean wasn't at all convinced that Mrs. Frieleng was the assailant. She had even agreed to submit to a medical exam (which also should have been done immediately following the crime).

In a quiet huddle outside of the interrogation room, Framingham had his hands on his hips. "I see two ways this can go. One: this is a dead end and this lady knows nothing. Two: she is our killer. We should get her to take a lie detector test."

"Okay, listen," Dean put on his best 'hey, dipshit' face, "that lady didn't kill nobody, alright? She's five-five, maybe five-six, hundred-and-ten pounds soaking wet. Gary ain't no bodybuilder, but he also didn't get beaten to death by Gidget in there, so let's just try to figure out what she's trying so hard to cover up."

"You think she was in cahoots with someone to do it?" Framingham nodded as he spoke. "You did say he was a cheater. Maybe she got someone to kill him, hired a gun."

"I - what - no! I didn't say that he was a cheater!" Dean huffed. "I don't think she's responsible. Period. Directly or not."

Cas stood tall, looking past Dean into the room through the two-way mirror and attempting futilely to straighten his tie. "I'll handle this. I've done research." He gave Dean a pointed look. "I can crack her."

For the first time that day, Dean smiled, struggling to stifle a chuckle. "Alright, Agent. Go ahead, why don't you see what you can shake outta Miss Daisy."

Cas looked quite pleased with himself. He made his way with determination back into the interrogation room, approaching the distressed woman, hands clasped behind his back.

"This oughtta be good," Dean said with a small laugh, crossing his arms and stepping closer to the glass for a better view.

"Mrs. Frieleng," Castiel began. "Obviously you are not being entirely truthful with us. Please tell me where you were when the murder occurred."

"Please, Agent, I told the police everything I know-"

"I understand that you're upset, ma'am, but it is vital to our investigation that you be completely forthright with me. We need to know where you were, where your husband was, and what you know about the people he was with."

"I keep telling you, we came to town for the event at the Oz Museum, I had no idea that Gary-" She jumped and snapped her mouth shut when Castiel banged a fist suddenly on the table before her.

His voice was gruff and commanding, and he shouted "WHY DID YOU MURDER YOUR HUSBAND?!"

Mrs. Frieleng began to cry in that moment, and Dean muttered, "uh-oh," before hurrying to the door and throwing it open.

"Agent!" He shouted. "That's enough!"

Castiel looked very surprised to see Dean, giving him a questioning look and a hopeful gesture toward the woman seated across from him.

"I didn't know his name!" She sobbed, and Dean caught himself before he yelled for his partner to behave.

He let the door close behind him. "Excuse me?"

"The man that my husband was meeting with. I didn't know his name." With trembling hands, she pulled a crinkled tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her nose and watery eyes with it. "He told me he had to meet a new client. He does this stuff sometimes, this weird cult-y stuff with charms and whatnot. He's an archaeologist." She blew her nose and then sniffled a few times, desperately trying to compose herself, wearily avoiding looking directly at Cas. "A few weeks ago, he found this odd piece of jewelry out in Cairo. Brought it home with him. He knew...he knew it was against the law, stealing from a dig site, but he was so fascinated by the damn thing. He kept saying it wanted to be brought here, that it was trying to get somewhere. He can be...could be a bit odd at times, especially when he had been overseas for a while. I didn't really think about it until he told me he was going to meet with a potential buyer here. I've always wanted an excuse to go to that stupid museum, so I didn't ask any questions. I never thought…I had no idea…" She broke down into tears again, and Cas knelt beside her, quietly apologizing for his outburst.

Dean stared at her while his gears turned. _Hieroglyphs._ That little box was covered in them. It must have been what that charm was inside of. _Now that's a lead,_ he thought.

"I know I should have told you," she was blubbering. "But there was this man...he said that if I told anyone what I knew that I would be next! Please, you can't let him do...You can't let them do to me what they did to Gary. Please."

"You will be safe at this station," Castiel assured her. "We are going to place you into protective custody until we can catch the murderer." He looked to Dean for affirmation.

Dean nodded, stare still a little distant. "Mrs. Frieleng, thank you so much for your time. You have been very helpful."

It was Dean's sixth beer. Well...maybe it was his seventh. He had lost count. The only measurement he cared about was ' _drunk enough not to be completely fucking annoyed with this god-awful Monday.'_ Being in the car with Senior Prim and Proper had taken more of a toll than he would admit, and the utter farce that was the Liberty Kansas Police Force had absolutely driven Dean to the bottle. He didn't typically drink on work nights, and he never drank while he was on a case, but there was absolutely no way he was going to survive the week without imbibing.

He gave a slight start when the man on the barstool next to him spoke to the bartender; Dean hadn't realized he had a neighbor.

"Evening," the man said, obviously noting Dean's surprise. He had a neat, stubbly beard, and bright eyes that sort of twinkled when he spoke. "Nice suit."

Dean grunted. "Thanks." He signaled that his bottle was empty and indicated that he wanted another.

"Awful lot of drinking for a Monday night." The man gave Dean a pointed look. "Alone?"

"I drink alone," Dean said with a slight melody in his tone. He smiled. "You're here alone, too."

Beardie laughed, and said, "That I am." He took a sip of his own drink. It was a tall, brightly-colored thing with an umbrella. "Heartbreak doesn't take days off, y'know," he said, softly.

"Ah." Dean nodded. "Neither does incompetence, apparently."

"Rough day at the office?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah, you could say that." He offered a hand. "Agent Dean Winchester."

"Tim." He accepted the handshake. "Nice to meet you, Agent."

"Oh, uh, Dean's fine." He accepted another beer from the woman behind the counter. "Now that we're on a first-name basis, tell me about the she-devil that put you here tonight."

"Ugh, Deborah." Tim made a face. "Blond-hair blue-eyed bimbo bitch. Never liked anything I did. She'd be making fun of me if she was here." He gestured to his colorful beverage.

"Sounds like a real keeper, that Deborah."

"What about you?" Tim asked, propping his chin on his hand, elbow on the bar. "You've had quite a few of those. I mean, I know that the title 'agent' comes with a lot of weight, but you're borrowing an awful lot of happiness from tomorrow. What do you need it for?"

Dean chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. He sighed, hoarsely. "Well, I've been working with the new guy." What the hell. What was the point of getting drunk at a bar if not to vent to a stranger? "Been driving me crazy all day. I mean, he doesn't really...he doesn't really do anything annoying, and it's kinda weird. Where does he get off being all chill and collected?" Dean took another drink while Tim waited, attention apparently captured. "Then we get here and...no offense, but your local PD needs a serious overhaul. Anyway, my guy gets this idea from some cop show he must have watched. Starts yellin' at our witness! Accusing her of stuff...stuff we got no evidence to support, okay? And she starts cryin' and yakkin'. Ain't pretty."

"Did you get some good intel from her?"

"Well yeah, I mean she finally opened up, but she was all freaked out."

"But she started talking!" Tim laughed. "You make it sound like that's a bad thing!"

Dean squinted, frustrated by his inability to communicate why Castiel's methods were unacceptable. "Yeah, but you can't just...you can't just decide to freak out on a witness, ya know? I mean…" He could feel the beer settling in his stomach and affecting his brain. He was definitely drunk now. "The FBI is all work, no play, alright." Actually, he wasn't feeling especially well. He set his bottle on the counter and swiped at his face, loosening his tie with a slow exhalation.

Tim shrugged, sliding his now-empty glass to the bartender. "It's your world, Agent."

"Dean." Dean corrected, focusing on _not feeling sick. Don't be sick._ He could feel Tim's eyes on him, so he forced himself to look up from his hands. "Anyway, it's stupid. It's over with. For today, anyway. Tomorrow might actually be worth a damn, but today is a 'get drunk so you don't commit homicide yourself' day."

"I'll drink to that," Tim agreed, lifting a fresh glass with some new colors in it. "Here's to drinking at inappropriate times, in inappropriate places."

Dean lifted his beverage and clinked it gently against Tim's. He lifted the bottle to his lips, but he couldn't bring himself to actually ingest any of the liquid. Partially, he didn't want to encourage the heartburn beginning to sear his sternum, but he was honestly considering his fellow drunk's words. Cas had acted completely unprofessional at the station earlier that day, but he did reap the necessary information to launch a pretty good canvass tomorrow. Dean had chewed him out pretty hard on the drive back to the motel. Maybe he didn't deserve that kind of criticism, especially on his first case when his behavior had honestly gotten results.

 _Damn, I'm a pansy when I drink._ Dean closed his eyes, the voice in his head actually quite loud. His stomach hurt.

"You know," Tim was sitting facing Dean now, and he might even have moved his stool closer, Dean wasn't sure. "My now-ex-girlfriend would say-"

"I'm sorry," Dean interrupted, standing up. The ground swayed beneath him - no, wait, that was him swaying - and he took a moment to balance himself. "Sorry, Tim. I gotta get back to the hotel and get some sleep. Long day tomorrow."

"Oh," Tim looked a little crestfallen, "I thought we had a...never mind." He nodded, understandingly. "Be safe getting home, and you have a good night."

"You have a good-" Dean started to respond, but in his attempt to walk without looking he stumbled into a chair and nearly hit the ground. His face burned crimson, and he just turned to leave, muttering, "Okay."

It was half-past-midnight when Dean finally stumbled into the motel room. Castiel was sitting in a rickety, harvest-style chair, watching a television program about the Grasshopper Mouse, an extremely vicious little creature that fought scorpions and howled at the moon in the Arizona desert.

The odor of alcohol permeated the air around Agent Winchester when he managed to get the door open, grumbling something about how the room key was functioning improperly.

Without averting his eyes from the screen, Cas asked, "Are you drunk?"

Dean made an incredulous sort of puffing snorting sound, accompanied by an exaggerated wave of his hand. Castiel glanced over at him as he tried to remove his shoes, succeeding only in falling to the floor, where he begrudgingly sat while he untied his laces and kicked off his trousers.

"M'gonna get some sleep," he mumbled. He struggled for a moment to stand. Cas thought about trying to help him, but Dean finally managed, shrugging off his jacket and collapsing onto the bed. He was snoring softly in less than a minute, atop the covers, still wearing his white button-up and a loose tie. The tie was definitely a strangling hazard.

"Dean," Castiel said the name firmly, hoping to rouse his partner before he fell into a deeper sleep. "Dean, you should remove your tie and shirt before sleeping. Your shirt will be wrinkled in the morning if you do not hang it up. Dean."

Dean snored.

With hesitation, Cas stood up and approached the side of the bed. "Did you not pack night clothes? I thought you would want to dress to preserve your modesty. You did express disdain at our accommodations." Castiel stood at the bed for a few moments, contemplating what he should do. The tie had to be removed, and if Dean wasn't going to do it, Castiel would. He tried to wake Dean by shaking him; he didn't stir.

"Dean, I'm going to take your tie off." The agent most likely couldn't hear him, but Cas felt better saying it aloud anyway. He knelt on the scratchy bedspread, leaning over to work the tie from under Dean's collar and pull it gently over his head. He was surprised that Dean had no reaction at all when he pulled the tie away by wriggling it between his face and the blanket. Castiel stood and glanced around the room; Dean was going to get cold with his legs exposed, and it would be unfortunate if he got sick on their first case together. He might create a negative association with Castiel as a result, if he wasn't upset enough from the day's antics. After briefly attempting to coax Dean into the bedsheets, he began searching the room for something to cover him with.

Maybe, he thought, he shouldn't have handled Mrs. Frieleng the way he did. Castiel knew that it was unconventional, and he knew that Dean would probably be upset with him. It was probably why he had gone out and gotten drunk that night, without saying where he was going or when he'd be back, beyond a "Don't wait up," hollered over his shoulder as he left. Agent Winchester's behavior so far put Castiel ill at ease. He was reckless, he was presumptuous, and he needed to reign in his temper. He felt it would be out of place to express these things, however, since Dean was his superior and that was likely to be the case for a while.

Castiel finally found a thin, brown blanket in the bottom drawer of the television stand. He unfolded it and laid it over Dean, tucking it gently around his upper arms. Dean sighed when he did so, as though the gesture comforted him. A tiny smile tugged at Castiel's lips; this was the happiest Dean had looked the entire three days he'd known him.

He picked up the remote and powered off the TV, before sitting back down in the chair, hands folded in his lap, to watch Dean sleep.

It was 5:32 AM when Dean woke with a start, sitting upright in the bed with distress on his face. The hair on the left side of his head, which he'd slept on, was half flat and half sticking straight up. He had red lines on his face from the blanket, and his eyes were puffy.

"What time is it?" He asked. His voice was gravelly.

"Half past five," Castiel responded. "You should drink some water."

Dean looked at Cas, eyes narrow, and sat up in the bed. He felt his legs through the blanket. "Where are my pants?"

Castiel looked at the table, where he'd neatly laid out Dean's clothes after folding them in the middle of the night. "I tried to get you to remove your shirt, as well, but you wouldn't wake up."

Dean grasped at his shirt where the top three buttons were open, covering his chest with his other hand. "You what?"

"Your shirt is going to be wrinkled now. You'll have to iron it, perhaps wash it, before we go anywhere today."

"Cas, did you take my clothes off when I came in?"

Despite having done nothing wrong, Castiel felt himself blush. "No! You undressed yourself. You returned intoxicated and you threw your pants and your jacket on the floor."

"Oh."

"I'll go downstairs and get you some ice. You are going to feel very unwell soon."

"I'm already feeling pretty unwell, Cas, but thanks."

"Sorry, Dean. You should get cleaned up. I can bring you some breakfast from downstairs, it will be available in," he glanced at the clock, "twenty-six minutes."

"Just enough time to get a shower." Dean nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Cas stood to leave, but was paused when Dean called, "Hey, Cas?"

He turned around. "Yes?"

"What did you do all night? I mean, I know you said you don't sleep, so why even come back here at all?"

Castiel tried very hard not to fidget. "I wanted to make sure that you were safe. You didn't inform me of your whereabouts last night, and when I saw how drunk you were I grew concerned for your safety."

"You were...you were watching me?"

"Yes."

"...all night?"

"Yes."

"Um...Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"...nevermind. Uh, I'll take ya up on that breakfast thing."

"Alright."

Author's Notes:

Thank you all so much for sticking with this story so far, I'm glad you're enjoying it! I would like to take this time to announce that I am officially moving all of my works to Archive Of Our Own. My username over there is YvesAdele, and I have also registered the username FutureAuthoress. I will still monitor this account and receive messages and comments, and this fanfiction will be posted in its entirety on this platform as well, but all future works will be posted only on Ao3. Please let me know if you'd like more details about this transfer! Enjoy Down to Earth with a Bang!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: "My burden is my purpose. Without it, I wouldn't be Dean."

Walking back into the Liberty police station with a cool head and a heavy hangover was among the most difficult things that Dean had ever accomplished. Every spoken word, stapler stapling, phone ringing, and door closing drove a searing pain deeper into his skull and a sickness into his stomach.

Castiel had made Dean eat a full breakfast, despite his protestations, and drink so much water that Dean eventually hurled eggs and a biscuit into the dingy motel toilet. The only palatable part of his morning was the shower, cool and refreshing and quiet. He threw up again in the shower, and when he got back out it took every last effort he possessed not to crawl into the bed and sleep for the rest of the week. He was pretty sure he had never been so hungover in his life. Not even that weekend after his 21st birthday when his college roommates took him to a ratty strip club and tube-fed him Jose Cuervo all night.

In addition to the pounding headache and heavy nausea, Dean could feel eyes on him in every direction. He knew he looked like hell. His face was pale, his hands felt clammy, and he probably still carried a faint odor of alcohol. Maybe vomit, too. He really could have sworn he didn't drink that much, it was only...well, it was at least ten beers, he knew that. Not a teenager anymore, he reminded himself.

"Good morning, Agent Winchester," Framingham greeted. "Agent Stills."

Cas, holding a legal-sized manilla folder in his hands, nodded a greeting. He deferred to Dean momentarily, who could barely even stand without swaying uncomfortably.

"Good morning, Deputy," Cas said, when Dean didn't answer. "We would like to speak with Mrs. Frieleng once more. We have had time to review the evidence and I have a few questions I'd like to ask."

Cas must have spent the evening looking over the case file. Idiot. I should have been doing that.

"I'll have her brought to Interrogation Room B," Framingham said. "I should warn you, though, she lawyered up. Her attorney knows his stuff. He got a whiff of the, uh, interview yesterday, and he is putting all sorts of ideas in her head about lawsuits and police brutality and the like."

"Police Brutality?" Castiel replied with a tilt of his head. "Was she mistreated in some way during the interview yesterday?"

"You yelled at 'er, Cas." Dean finally managed to speak. "Not illegal, but witnesses don't like that and lawyers love to start shit. He don't get much just defendin', but if she wants to file a suit she's got to slap a big fat retainer on him." He huffed. "Asshole. It'll never hold, and he knows it, but he'll still get his payday."

Castiel looked both baffled and disgusted, an almost adorably naive look of questioning on his features. "That's not...very moral. Can he do that?"

Both Dean and the Deputy gave disapproving, acknowledging huffs, and Framingham radioed someone to have Frieleng sent over.

"No funny business today, Cas," Dean muttered while they walked toward the far end of the station. "I mean it. Let me do the talking."

"Dean, are you sure that is wise? You are not-"

"I mean it." Dean gritted his teeth. "Look, man, you did good work yesterday, but that was 'Rookie luck,' alright? Last thing we need is for this lady to actually have a reason to sue us. That would be very very bad. Could set the case back for months and we can't afford that."

"I understand, but, Dean, I have gathered the security footage from nearby venues where the couple was staying and I believe I may have identified our suspect. If I can get Mrs. Frieleng to identify him on the record, we can bring him in for questioning."

"What? Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"You said that if I bothered you one more time before you got your coffee that you were going to 'force-feed me my tie and hang me out of this third-story window by my shoelaces.'"

Dean slowed his pace. I did say that, didn't I. He sighed, softly. He should probably stop being quite so stuck up, this was supposed to be Castiel's opportunity to learn, and he seemed to be doing okay so far. "Fine," he said, "but I don't have to be happy about it."

"No. Thank you." He handed the file he was carrying to Dean to look through while they waited.

An officer finally buzzed them in to the interrogation room, where Mrs. Frieleng sat at a grungy black table next to a man who must be her attorney.

Dean's heart skipped a beat.

The lawyer stood up, bright smile revealing straight white teeth. He was clean-shaven and handsome, and horribly, sickeningly familiar.

He extended a hand first toward Castiel. "Good morning, gentlemen; Timothy McGinn, Attorney at Law. I will be representing Mrs. Frieleng." He extended a hand to Dean, who just shook dumbly with a blank stare. The nausea washed back over him, roiling in his stomach and rising to his throat. He swallowed it back and plastered a smile on. He could not show any weakness now.

"Good morning, Mr. McGinn. Mrs. Frieleng." He adjusted his blazer as he sat, stiffly, across from them.

"Mrs. Frieleng, I have some images taken from security cameras that I would like you to take a look at," Castiel began, handing his folder now to the lawyer across the table.

The two-faced, lying, secretive, fake-friend attorney took the folder and opened it, scanning its contents before handing it to his client. Recognition immediately fluttered over her features.

"Have you seen that man?" Castiel asked.

She looked up at McGinn, who nodded gently for her to answer.

"I think...that's the man. I didn't really get a good look at him, but I'm pretty sure I saw Gary with him before...you know."

"Would you testify to that in court?" Castiel asked.

She looked from the pictures to Castiel's imploring face. It really was a hard face to tell "no." She nervously glanced at her lawyer again, who again nodded, encouragingly this time.

"Yes," she said. "I can testify to that."

"Thank you," Castiel said, softly. He looked to Dean, who uncrossed his arms and sat forward.

"Mrs. Frieleng, I would appreciate if you could prepare a written statement recounting exactly what happened the night of the incident."

"Oh, but I've already given my statement to the Deputy-"

"I know, ma'am, but it helps if there is something in the records in your exact words. Cops tend to paraphrase, and while that works perfectly well to aide in an investigation, if there is any reasonable doubt left while charging the suspect it helps to have a written statement from all of the witnesses."

"Of course, I understand."

"I'll help you with that later today," McGinn assured.

"Fantastic. Thank you again, Mrs. Frieleng. You have been a lot of help." He stood from his seat and headed toward the door.

He let Cas leave first, glancing behind him at McGinn and saying, "A word?"

McGinn stood up, giving his client a final pat on the shoulder and following Dean into the dark hallway.

When the door shut, Dean grumbled, "You son of a bitch!"

McGinn looked genuinely shocked. "Whoa, now, Agent! You can't blame me for your bad habits."

"I could have you disbarred for tampering!"

"That's juries, Agent Winchester."

Dean growled and clenched his teeth, jaw flexing. "Not cool, man. Why didn't you tell me you were her lawyer?"

"I wasn't last night," Tim stepped closer to Dean, way too in his personal space. "I - oh, god you have very bad breath today."

Dean clapped a hand over his mouth, face flushing hot.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I am! I really...you know, thought we had something."

Dean took a moment to register Tim's words, face getting hotter. "You thought...you and I...oh. Oh! I mean - no, I don't mean that in a bad way, I just don't...uh...you know."

"Oh. Oh!" He took a big step away from Dean, blushing himself. "I didn't realize. I'm sorry. You were drunk and you were flirting, so I kinda thought you must be…"

"Nope. Nah. I like women. Ladies. Sorry, man." Dean cleared his throat. This was the most uncomfortable day of his life. "I, uh, gotta catch up with my partner. You," he coughed a little to cover up the catch in his voice. "You take care, okay? I'll see ya later. Uh, at the police station. And the courthouse. Because we're on a case. The same case. Well, your witness. In my case."

Tim smirked a little, nodding. "Sure will. Take care, Agent Winchester."

Around 1:00 the nausea had begun to subside, only to be replaced with a pounding pain in his head. Dean and Cas sat across from each other at a two-person diner booth. Cas casually (but with an unnatural frequency) sipped from a tall, frosty glass of water, only because Dean insisted that it would be odd if they came in together and only Dean ordered. Dean picked uneasily at a half-eaten burger on his plate. His stomach was still unsettled, and though leaving the burger uneaten made him feel a modicum of guilt, the feeling of almost-queasiness was stronger.

"Something still ain't right," he mumbled, breaking the long silence that had settled since they had ordered.

"Such as…?" Cas inquired. He took another sip from his glass after he spoke.

Dean elected not to say anything about the weird drinking pattern. "I don't know; just a gut feeling, y'know?"

"No, I do not. Angels do not possess the same digestive tracts as humans, so we-"

"Not a feeling in my literal gut, Stills. It's an expression."

Cas gave a moment of pause, tilting his head slightly before twisting his features into an expression of vague understanding. "I see. I have heard it used before, however I had always believed it to be in reference to a sense of good or bad in the stomach that I simply could not experience."

Dean chuckled. "No, buddy. Not really. It just means that you have a kinda...instinctual feeling about something, I guess. Like you can't point at any evidence or nothin', but something just feels off."

"I see. But I don't understand how, as an investigator and a law enforcement agent, you could genuinely subscribe to this…'gut feeling.'"

"I don't - it's not - I mean, you aren't supposed to act on it, just be on the…" Dean sighed and sat back in his chair. "Look, you don't have to understand or even believe me. Just trust me, alright?"

Cas looked more perplexed than before, but he said nothing and nodded in agreement.

"What made you say that thing about demons?" Dean asked, trying to get away from the subject.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yesterday, at the station. You took one look at that body and said it was demons. Why?"

"Oh, yes. As an angel, I have a sense for the supernatural. I could sense that demons were at work in this case, though I can not discern with what motive, how, or why. My senses felt extremely dulled in the morgue, as though I had been hexed or cursed somehow."

"Uh-huh. So you think this is a supernatural case we are dealing with?"

"Undoubtedly. I can sense demons even now, in this town. Heavy demon activity, in fact, though again I can't quite pinpoint it."

As Cas spoke the words, even, that feeling in Dean's stomach (though not entirely discernable from the hangover) crept deeper into him, and he felt a chill. He scanned the room, and in the background of his focus he could hear Cas still speaking, droning on about demons and cults and something about angel chatter. The room looked undisturbed. A pretty waitress was taking orders at a booth on the far wall. The hostess leaned on her podium, chatting with a waiter. The sun was beginning to creep into the west side of the sky, casting bright light on the floor through the large windows on the storefront. If not for the dead trees and brown grass outside, it would look like a warm summer day.

Dean scanned the patrons of the diner; none looked suspicious or even slightly shady. Dean's skin prickled tighter nonetheless, and he grabbed his blazer from the booth seat beside him and their ticket from the table. "Let's get out of here, we still got work to do."

The two of them stood together. Dean tossed some change from his pocket on to the table, justifying the lame tip with The service was terrible in his mind. As they made their way to the front of the diner to pay the bill, Dean spotted a gaggle of what looked like college frat boys entering through the front door. Well, closer to high school age really, he realized, but there were three of them and they were huge, buff and wearing basketball shorts with hoodies unzipped over t-shirts and tank tops. He watched them seat themselves as the hostess rang him up, and just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye. The smarmiest of the douches had shed his hoodie over the back of a chair, and there, on his left shoulder, were three barely-visible dots.

He stared a moment longer, inserting his card back into his wallet to buy a few seconds to look. No. Not dots. Swirls. Just like the corpse. Dean nudged his partner, looking away from the kids and gesturing with a nod.

Dean thanked the stars in heaven when Cas took the hint without verbalizing and looked in the intended direction. "Those markings," he said, in a low voice.

"Mm-hmm. We need to talk to that kid." Dean began putting his blazer back on as he made his way to the table. For the first time since their departure, Cas seemed uneasy.

"Agent Winchester, are you certain we should just-"

"It's fine," Dean interrupted. "Excuse me." He centered himself in the guy's line of vision and forced a weak smile, pulling his badge from the jacket pocket. "Agent Dean Winchester, I would like to have a word with you."

With an annoyed-adolescent look, narrow brown eyes flitted only momentarily up at him. "Agent, huh? What can I do for ya...agent?" The last word was said slowly, with some sort of sarcastic or disbelieving tone to it that rubbed Dean in every wrong direction.

Oh my god I hate teenagers. "I'm in town on an investigation and I have reason to believe you may know something about my case. Mind if I have a word with you?"

With a scoffing half laugh, he looked at his friends and pointed toward Dean with his thumb. He shook his head, then looked up at Dean. "Alright."

"Thanks. Promise I'll only keep him a sec, then you guys can get back to...football...or underage drinking...whatever you talk about."

The friends gave an uneasy laugh, but the one standing to talk to Dean didn't seem fazed by the comment.

They walked tensely outside together, and Dean braced against the sharp, cold wind. "What's your name, kid?"

"Jackson."

"...Jackson…?"

"Brett Jackson."

"So, Brett Jackson, I was hoping you could tell me about your relation to Gary Frieleng," Dean opened.

Brett Jackson looked across the parking lot. "Don't know him, sorry."

"Really? Because from the looks of things, you guys got matching tattoos some time. No judgment, man, what happens in Vegas and all that."

"I don't get what you're tryna say, agent. Tattoo parlors give out cheap dime-a-dozen tats all the time, man. Got it when I was drunk. Don't mean nothing."

"Gary Frieleng was found dead Sunday with those same marks. Your life may be in danger, so whatever freaky cult stuff you two were doing I don't care, but we need to get you into protective custody and you need to tell the police everything you know."

He laughed. "You don't know what you're talking about, dude, but nice chat. I gotta go, I'm kinda on a time frame here so-" he turned to go back inside.

"Just one second," Dean gruffed. He reached toward Brett and grabbed his arm. In one swift motion, Brett shrugged off the hold and swung around fist-first, landing a jab straight to Dean's left cheek bone. He staggered backward, the clouds above him spinning jaggedly as his (Witness? Suspect?) bolted away. The diner door swung open with a raucous clattering of bells.

He caught himself on one of the huge windows, just in time to hear Cas shout "Freeze!"

The frantic footfalls halted, and Cas' voice carried distantly. "Down on the ground! You are under arrest for assault of a federal agent."

"I barely touched him!" Was the teen's response. Cas paid the plea no heed and proceeded to cite Brett's rights over the clinking sound of handcuffs being applied. "C'mon man, at least let me get my jacket! It's freezing out here!"

Dean began to center himself. He saw Cas haul the assailant off the pavement and shove him unceremoniously into the backseat of their rental car, engaging the child lock on the door before he closed it. He repeated the process on the opposite side, then walked swiftly to where Dean was still leaning against the glass.

"Dean, are you okay?"

Dean nodded, clearing his throat and standing upright. The dizziness resumed and he took an uncertain sideways step. Cas caught his shoulder and said "Be careful. You're disoriented."

"No shit," Dean groaned, gingerly touching his face where the blow had landed. It stung, and blood came away on his fingers. "Son of a bitch! That asshole is like a sledgehammer!" He swayed a little, and with the sway his stomach lurched. He hurried to lean away from Cas as best he could, but the nausea swelled too fast and all the work he had put into eating lunch was undone as he hurled again onto the parking lot at Cas' feet. He remained hunched over for a moment, closing his eyes against the burning in his cheeks. He told himself it was from the punch. Morbid humiliation swept through him.

"We will need to file a report," said Cas, not missing a beat.

"I know." Dean sniffed and spit onto the ground, trying to get rid of the taste so he didn't puke yet again. He slowly straightened, eyes still closed. "Little punk," he muttered.

"Let's get back to the station. Do you intend to press charges?"

"Nah, he's just a kid, I'm sure he just freaked out. But he needs to think I'm going to so he talks. And it's a good reason to keep him in custody for a little bit anyway." He finally opened his eyes and patted Cas' shoulder. "S'go."

Dean let Cas drive them back, holding a bag of ice against his face and throwing threatening glances in the rearview mirror every few minutes for good measure.

Aside from an initial meltdown and some arguing, Jackson sat quietly in the back sans seat belt, staring almost stoically through the windshield. He never met Dean's gaze in the mirror. He looked resigned. They rode in silence back to the station, where Cas hauled the offender out of the car and shoved him ahead of him through the front doors. It would have been comical, watching the disheveled rookie push around a man with at least a foot and probably 100 pounds on him, if it wasn't so damn impressive. That little angel is a giant badass.

"What's this?" Framingham asked as they approached the front desk.

"Mr Jackson assaulted Agent Winchester when he attempted to ask him a series of routine questions pertaining to our murder investigation," Cas explained.

"Assault-holy hell, Agent!"

"C'mon, it ain't that bad," Dean said. He grimaced. "Is it that bad?"

"Your face is a different shape, Winchester. Let me get the nurse to take a look at you, you need an X-Ray."

"I don't need that," Dean insisted, "I'll be fine."

"We need to know the extent of the damage for your report," Framingham explained. "Please. It will only take a moment."

Dean looked toward his partner for support, but Cas was already leading the junior criminal to holding. He sighed and conceded, following Framingham toward the department infirmary.

Following a thorough examination of his face and several lights shone into his eye to make sure he could still see just fine (he could), some painful poking and prodding, and another ice pack, Dean was cleared to return to the investigation at hand with the understanding that he keep it iced and get a follow up at home. He nodded and swiftly made his way to the interrogation room, where Agent Stills was talking quietly with Officer Framingham. Behind them was the two way mirror behind which Mrs Frieleng had sat the previous day. In the small, bright room, Jackson had been uncuffed and placed in a metal chair next to the table. He bounced his leg and looked tensely around the room.

"Agent Winchester," Framingham greeted him. "Everything look good for you there?"

"Yup. Cleared for duty by Nurse Ogawa herself."

"Great! Agent Stills here," he nodded to Cas, "filled me in. We tried to get him to talk, said this would be over much faster if he just told us what was going on, even offered to get him a lawyer. Stills even told him that we were going to get the information we needed with or without his cooperation, Jackson said, and I believe these were his exact words: 'over my dead body you immoral pig.'"

"Christ, what a winner," Dean huffed, looking through the mirror in frustration. Just what they needed today: an uncooperative witness.

"I showed him a photo of the box," Cas continued. "He said he didn't recognize it, but his expression and demeanor suggested he was lying."

"Mmm." Dean acknowledged, still watching with some intent.

Jackson had begun fiddling with his left sneaker. Dean squinted and stepped in for a closer view and said, "what is he doing?" As he did so, Jackson pulled something out of the aglet on his shoelace. He popped it in his mouth.

Dean felt a cold rush of adrenaline. "No no no no NO!" He bolted for the door, shouting "Let me in!" to Framingham, who looked dumbstruck for a moment before complying and unlocking the door. Dean pushed through frantically and grabbed the kid by the wrists. "Spit that out, you little shit!"

Jackson smiled. "Too late, asshole. Good luck with your murder case though. I'm sure you'll...you…" he began to cough and sputter. He started sliding off the chair, and he was too heavy for Dean to hold up.

"Get a medic in here!" Dean shouted. He knew there was no point. Whatever poison Brett had ingested acted swiftly. He was already seizing, pink foam gathering at the corners of his mouth and dribbling onto the floor.

Dean turned him on his side, supporting his head to keep it from knocking against the concrete floor. "Don't you die on me, kid," he muttered. "Don't you fuckin' dare, you little prick."

It took only moments for the in-house nurse to arrive and only minutes for local EMTs, but there was nothing anyone could do. The seizing had stopped by the time the ambulance got there, and Jackson lay limp on the floor, foam and now bile dripping from his slack mouth. His eyes had rolled back and gone almost completely red.

"He's gone," one of the responders said. Dean barely heard him over the tense ringing in his ears. A witness - a teenager - had just poisoned himself secret-agent style in the Liberty Police Station interrogation room. For what? What the hell could he be protecting that was worth his life? His young, albeit douchey, but likely long, and prosperous life?

He slowly released the body at the gentle beckoning of the other EMT, and he stood in disbelief, staring down at the mess. He was pulled from the stupor by Cas, who had placed a hand gently on his shoulder. Dean looked up at him in disbelief.

"Dean," Cas spoke in a hushed tone. "Are you alright?"

Dean cleared his throat and nodded, wiping away the look of horror he was sure had crossed his features. "Yeah, yeah I'm good. Just, uh, surprised. I mean, what the hell is going on here?"

"I'm not sure. This case becomes more confusing with every new piece of evidence. I have a strong suspicion that we just lost our best chance of locating our murderer."

"Agreed. And y'know somethin', Cas? I'm starting to think this thing goes beyond just one murder. This might be pretty big." Dean pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket. "I'm gonna go get some pictures of that box and shoot them to Sam. He might be able to find someone who can tell us what it is and what it means."

"Sam? Your brother?"

"Yeah. Sorry, he's an attorney, got a lot of...eccentric clients. Maybe one of them can help us translate those writings."

"Ah. Yes, that would probably be prudent." Cas agreed, following Dean out of the room. "I didn't know your brother was a lawyer," he added, after a moment.

"Lotta things you don't know about me, Agent Stills!"


End file.
